


i’m the fuel & she’s the spark

by raiindust



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Death of a loved one, Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:43:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10043165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiindust/pseuds/raiindust
Summary: various drabble fills in which bellamy & raven make out.





	1. try describing a love you can’t design.

**Author's Note:**

> in which i attempt to write make outs. and realise it may not be my strength. if pg-13 smut was a thing, this would probably be it. unbeta'ed just because, all mistakes are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> prompt: _dawn_ , for **shortitude**.  
>  title from wildfire by seafret.

Bellamy rises early, Raven does not. It amuses him how, even after all this time on the ground, she's still very much  _ not _ a morning person. How, after everything they’ve been through, she seems more herself grumbling about the lack of warmth when he slips from their bed, her arms flinging out in half sleep in an attempt to tug him back to her, than she does anywhere else in their new world. 

 

(Well,  _ almost _ anywhere else. But the way she lives and breathes and exists while working encompasses so much of  _ why  _ she needs to be, and Bellamy can only hope to create a place beyond those four small walls where one day she might feel the same sensation of  _ home _ .) 

 

Sometimes she sleeps through his early morning exodus; if she’s stayed up particularly late the night before, hunched over her bench designing, creating, crafting this or that or whatever life saving device is next on her list. On those nights she’ll stumble in close to sunrise, shove herself harshly into his arms and lock herself in his embrace. Those mornings she will sleep like the dead when he untangles himself from her arms and slips from their tent. 

 

But on mornings when the early rays of dawn seep through the faded fabric of their home and gently kiss their skin, that’s when Raven reaches, gingerly, roughly, always for his wrist to pull him back to her. And Bellamy yields because after, in their half-lit room Raven will smile a small, crooked smile, and the smile will fall from her lips to his heart like a secret held just for him. 

 

And from that smile comes a kiss; slow, languid, lazy, like a hazy memory falling from a dream. Then her mind will catch up with the movements her body makes on instinct; and she’ll drag her tongue across his lips, arch her back and press against him, claw at his chest, pulling him down. And he will fall deeper into every breath, every moan, everything she is. 

 

Seconds stretch to moments to eternities; Raven will bite down on his lip and his hands will fumble with the hem of her shirt as he pushes it upwards to splay his hands across her back. Her hands will push from Bellamy’s chest across his back, fingers raking across the bumps and bruises and scars. His lips will move from her lips to her neck to her ear, and she will buck and grip and gasp against each successive movement until -- 

 

eventually she will sigh, peaceful, sated, and allow herself to fall from his arms back against the bed, her lips stuck in that small, crooked smile. 

 

On those mornings Bellamy arrives late in a daze, hair askew, shoes untied, with a smile so bright it could blind.

 

And if anyone asks him why, his reply is always the same --

  
because he really loves the dawn.


	2. show me where my armor ends, show me where my skin begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i attempt to write make outs. and realise it may not be my strength. if pg-13 smut was a thing, this would probably be it. unbeta'ed just because, all mistakes are mine and mine alone. also apparently i enjoy putting the prompt in the literal text.
> 
> prompt: because you didn't die, for **shortitude**.  
>  title from pluto by sleeping at last.

When Bellamy appears at Raven’s door it’s well past midnight, and her first instinct is to push him, roughly, her hands connecting sharply with his chest. He winces slightly as he throws his bag, small as it is, to the ground, but she knows it’s more from annoyance than pain.

 

“What was that for?” Comes his tired reply, and she sees it then; the sheer exhaustion yet _another_ hostile experience has given him.

 

Slowly Raven takes him in, the sight of a returned soldier from battle; hair matted damply to his head from rain, a slight lean into his right leg as if his left holds discomfort the more weight he dares to place on it, the wince as he pulls his jacket from his body, discarding it haphazardly onto the floor.

 

For a moment she lets the quiet drip of rain falling against the roof engulf them; lets them exist in silence while she tries to find the right combination of words to answer him, to fill the uneasy space between them.

 

_Because you disappeared into the night._

 

_Because you left without telling me._

 

_Because I woke up alone._

 

_Because I lo--_

 

“Because--”

 

It begins as a sigh, something low and flat and empty. Between the two of them they’ve fought this fight long enough to find their fill of fatigue. Except then she catches the glint in his eye, the hardened steel that she knows is reflected in her own. A silent cry for redemption.  

 

And as she starts toward him, her feet tentative against the coarse floor, the sigh becomes a maybe that uncovers the potential for hope; maybe words won’t ever mean what they should, won’t ever be enough. Maybe it’s their actions that count. He may have left, but Bellamy returned: to Arkadia, to them, to _her_. Bruised but not broken, haunted but alive.  

 

So Raven pushes into his space, crowding him completely until the only place her can look is into her eyes. Her fingers reach out and trace shallow cuts that will, in time, heal and create new scars to form a constellation of wars waged across his body. Bellamy leans into the touch, his body sagging under the weight of his choices.

 

Yes, he disappeared into the night. But--

 

He came back.

 

Raven’s rising onto her toes before her brain can process the movement, and pressing her lips to his; softly, gently, without hesitation or regret. Eyes trained on him, she watches as his widen in response, and for a minute she thinks he’s going to shove her away (he’s never believed himself worthy of love) but then--

 

His arms are snaking around her middle and pulling her to him, and his tongue is tracing a line across her lips asking for permission to deepen the kiss, and Raven feels herself tugging on his collar, pulling him closer, breathing in dirt and blood and _him._

 

It lasts long enough to consume them both. For Bellamy to spin them and push Raven against the wall, hands moving from her waist to her back to under her shirt; fingers ghosting against her skin leaving goosebumps in the wake. They stay -- satisfied enough for Raven to twist her hands in his hair tug gently and pull closer against him; moaning (sighing) as she collides against him.

 

“What was that for?” The words are guttural as they escape his lips; spoken between heaving breaths as Bellamy finally falls back and meets her gaze. She feels herself flush, just a little, from want and desire and _him_.

  
“Because,” Raven replies, her voice deep, needy, as she closes the gap between them once more. “You didn’t die.”


	3. so i stayed in the darkness with you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a continued attempt at makeouts going slightly better, perhaps. possibly a modern au.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of death, because why not break raven reyes more than she already is. unbeta'ed just because, all mistakes are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> prompt: at the wrong moment, for akzseinga.  
> title from cosmic love by florence & the machine.

It’s late in the afternoon when Bellamy finds Raven nestled, little a child, in Jacapo’s chair, arms wrapped tightly around her fragile frame. Dark clothes match her dark hair and darker eyes, eyebrows knitted together into a troubled, contemplative expression. 

 

She looks like she hasn’t eaten in days, slept in a week, breathed in a year; her will to live fading quickly from existence, hiding far far away from the loud chaos of the world. 

 

He supposes burying a second family member in as many months will do that to you. 

 

Standing at the edge of the room Bellamy falters, wondering (momentarily) what it would cost to be plunged, falling, freely into her gravitational axis. Could he survive in the darkness with her; would she let him stay? 

 

His heart aches so fucking deeply for the chance to try.

 

“Don’t come too close,” Raven speaks, and it breaks him from his thoughts, startled that she’s noticed he’s here. “Haven’t you heard,” Her tone wild, her sneer feral “I leave death in my wake?”

 

(Bellamy had hoped she’d be spared of hearing those words, muttered harshly on the edge of a room by someone who doesn’t understand. But Raven, he knows, is everywhere in this empty house, so of course the sharp sting of unforgiving words have coiled tightly around her heart.)

 

“Seriously, Bell.” She’s hostile, antagonistic; searching for a fight to fill the space death has carved. “Stay the hell away from me.”

 

And for a fleeting second, he thinks maybe he should, because she’s been caged for far too long by bitter beliefs of not enough, never enough.

 

But the way her voice cracks as her words fade into silence, the way her eyes shimmer with tears, the way his heart breaks to see her like this, throbs to take away her pain,  _ aches _ when he’s not near her -- 

 

Three steps, that’s all it takes, before he’s pulling her sharply from the chair towards him, lips colliding messily to hers, arms gliding from her waist along bare arms to rest, finally, around her neck, delicately trying to hold her together as she threatens to break apart. They stay locked like this (together, unmoving) and Bellamy consumes desperately, hungrily the very magnitude of her. 

 

And time stands still.

 

Until-- 

 

“Shit,” Bellamy swears, pulling back as the harsh taste of vodka hits his tongue. Only his hands are still cradling her neck, and Raven’s fists are balled in his shirt, tugging his chest tightly towards her. “Sorry, that was--” He pauses then,  thumb caressing her cheek softly, trembling as he searches for the right words for this monumental moment.

 

Except.

 

She sniffles, and it sounds like a half sob, half laugh falling strangled from her throat. “Stupid?” She supplies sadly with a shake of her head, and then, forcefully, “Ludicrous? A mistake?” A dry laugh bubbles from her lips. “Obviously. People die when they are with me. Near me. So why would you even take a chance to---” 

 

He presses his lips to hers again like a promise, swallowing the words like the sin they are. It’s rougher this time, and he feels Raven tense; her bones hard and bitter, jutting out at angles furiously pressing into his flesh. But he matches her intensity, his own anger seeping through, because this bright, light, unbelievable shape of a girl believes death trails behind her like a shadow of herself, and Bellamy needs her to know that she is not the means of their destruction. 

 

No, she’s the reason for his salvation. 

 

So he breathes against her, pushing against her lips and growling as her nails drag against his back, his hips, his waist, his skin. 

 

The kiss becomes a monster, raw and savage, a little like them, until suddenly it isn’t, and Raven’s body slackens in his arms, overwhelmed by her grief. Bellamy feels her fall and pulls her up, and hopes against hope that maybe (eventually) she’ll let him be here, let him help her heal.

 

There’s like a release when her body finally exhales in his arms. Her head lifts from the dark, damp spot she’s left on his shirt, and it takes everything in him not to reach out and wipe away the tears stained on her cheeks. Raven’s a mess; bloodshot eyes dark from tears and exhaustion, hair messy from the shape of his arms crushing her to him. 

 

“It just wasn't the right time.” Another strangled sob escapes her lips, but he can see now, the half smile forming lazily on her face, and it’s like the dying rays of a winter's sun trying to warm an ice-cold soul, trying to stitch it back together in time for spring. 

 

_ Time _ , he thinks, as his hands graze her cheek, as their noses brush and bump with closeness,  _ time is what she needs. _

 

And then, “Maybe you can try again next week.” With feathered deftness, a jab to his chest. “See if it’s right right time then?” It from her lips as a whisper; like finally, she can see through the darkness into the light.

 

“Yeah,” Bellamy replies, allowing himself the smallest hint of a smile, because you know what they say about hope --

 

“Maybe I can.”


End file.
